by George Mann
Gabriel took their wild claims with the pinch of salt they deserved, although the reference to the Reaper’s dead girlfriend was interesting—Donovan had been looking for something that linked Autumn Allen to the mob, and perhaps this was it. He’d said the woman was carrying a hefty weight in diamonds, and that they’d clearly been gifts from a prosperous admirer. Perhaps she wasn’t just connected to the mob, but to the Reaper himself? That would certainly explain why no one had come forward to help with the police enquiries.
He made a mental note to follow it up with Donovan.
Talk had moved on now to sport and women, and Gabriel knew that he wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of the people here. They were low-level mobsters at best, nothing more than goons, and if the Café Deluxe itself was a front for the Reaper, it was only as a place to launder money and allow his men to wind down. He couldn’t see any evidence of anything more clandestine going on here, aside from the usual sort of gambling and drinking one found in venues such as this.
He downed his whisky and placed a handful of dollars under the glass on the bar. Then, rising from his seat, he saw her standing there at the other end of the bar.
Ginny.
She looked resplendent in a red and white dress, and she was wearing a red feather in her hair, which had grown since he’d last seen her, now falling around her shoulders in luxurious blonde curls. She was looking straight at him, holding her glass out before her in a salute, her familiar coquettish grin on her painted red lips.
For a moment, Gabriel didn’t know what to do. His head was suddenly full of questions. What was she doing here, in a mob bar, dressed like that? How had he missed her at the docks?
He supposed there would be time to answer all of that later. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his stool, and turned to beckon her over, but a large group of men, who had arrived only moments before, had suddenly swarmed around the bar, obscuring his view.
Frustrated, he pushed his way through them, eliciting a series of curses and threats. When he arrived at the other end of the bar, however, she was nowhere to be seen.
Confused, Gabriel turned on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of her red and white dress. She couldn’t have gone far. He’d only been a moment.
There was a man sitting close to where she’d been standing. He was hunched over the bar, staring into his drink. He was a swarthy-looking fellow, with a tanned, healthy complexion and a thick black beard. He was wearing his collar open, and his tan jacket seemed somewhat out of place amongst all the formal black suits around him.
“Excuse me,” said Gabriel, “but there was a woman here, just a moment ago. She was wearing a red and white dress, with a feather in her hair. Could you tell me which way she went?”
The man peered at him, as if weighing him up. “There was no woman here,” he said. He had a soft, Gallic lilt to his accent.
“You must be mistaken,” said Gabriel. “She was just here, only a moment ago. I came straight over. A blonde, pretty, about so tall.” He tapped his shoulder, indicating her approximate height.
“No,” said the man. “I’d have remembered a woman like that.” He picked up his drink and took a swig, turning his back on Gabriel.
Frowning, Gabriel left the man to his drink. The barman was down the other end of the bar, now embroiled in fixing drinks for all the new arrivals. Even if Gabriel were able to get a word in edgewise, it was unlikely he’d have seen where she went.
He decided to try the dance floor, just in case she was in one of her playful moods. Here, a group of women were dancing to a jazzy, upbeat number, kicking their heels high and waving their hands about, laughing breathlessly, their tasseled skirts swishing about their knees. A handful of men stood around the edges, watching them hungrily. He watched for a moment, scanning the faces, but there was no sign of her here, either.
For a moment, he wondered whether he’d imagined it all, whether it was the booze, or the painkillers, or the god-awful weariness finally catching up with him. She’d seemed so vivid, though, so real. Yet the man at the bar had been so insistent…
Nevertheless, he had to trust his gut. She’d been there. He was sure of it.
He left the dance floor and walked the rest of the bar, checking every face, every dress, every shadowy nook—but there was no sign of her. He stepped outside and smoked a cigarette in the street, watching people filing out to their cars or hailing cabs to take them home. Then, after a while, he went back inside and ordered another drink, taking a seat at the bar, close to where he’d seen her. The Frenchman had moved on, his empty glass still sitting there with a handful of crumpled notes underneath it.
He nursed the drink for another hour, scanning the crowds, but it was clear that she had gone.
After a while, the barman asked him if he wanted another, but he shook his head and tossed a few bills on the bar. Then, having never felt quite so alone, he left, hoping the balmy summer night would help to clear his mind as he strolled home.
* * *
A few hours later, the Ghost cut the ignition to his boosters and lowered himself slowly onto a fire escape. The iron frame creaked as he set down on the platform, grasping hold of the railing to steady himself.
He stood for a moment, surveying the street. It was late, and the streetlights glowed with a soft sheen, as if they’d somehow stored up the final vestiges of daylight and were now breathing them back out into the streets, sprinkling light upon the city.
There was no one around. The little café had closed up some hours earlier, and the lights in the apartment windows were now beginning to wink off, as one day transitioned into another, and sleep drew people to their beds.
He waited a while, watching Ginny’s apartment from his vantage point on the other side of the street. There were no lights on inside, and no signs of movement. If she’d returned here after visiting Café Deluxe, she’d already turned in for the night.
When he was sure that he wasn’t going to be observed, he swung down from the fire escape, dropping the few feet to the sidewalk. He landed silently in a crouch, cringing as he felt the wound in his back open up with the motion. He was going to have to get it seen to, he realized—he could feel the blood running freely again, despite his best attempts to clean and dress it after his bath earlier that day. At least the dressing would mean he didn’t leave a trail of blood behind him as he worked.
He crossed the street, keeping low, and took the steps down into Ginny’s lobby two at a time, keen to remain out of sight.
A quick scan of the heaped trash told him that someone had been here since his last visit—the leaves had been swept to one side by the opening and closing of the door. The wedged-in mail had been removed from the letterbox, too.
For a moment he hesitated, unsure what to do. Perhaps he should have come as Gabriel, after all? Then, with a shrug, he rapped three times on the door, and stood back to see if anyone would answer.
He half expected the light to blink on, the door to swing open, and Ginny’s laughing face to be peering out at him, berating him for taking so long to follow her here. The moment stretched, however, and there was no response, and no sound of movement from inside.
He tried again, one last time, but again it proved fruitless, and no one came to the door.
Someone had been here, though. It made logical sense that it was Ginny. He’d hoped she’d come straight back to him, maybe heading out to Long Island to stay at the house, but if she had returned to New York with no intention of seeing him, then this was where she would come. Only, the look on her face in the club earlier suggested things weren’t over between them.
He tried the handle, but the door was still locked. Seeing no other option, he threw his shoulder against it, once, twice… and on the third time the lock burst and it yawned open with a bang.
Cautiously, he stepped inside, pushing it shut behind him. It would be an easy enough job to repair the lock, and at least this way he could put his mind at rest…
Or so he thought, until he saw the devastation that had been wreaked across the entire apartment. The place had been burgled, or certainly ransacked—the furniture had been overturned, the drawers pulled out and upended on the floor. The cushions had been slashed, and the bookcase had been emptied, all of Ginny’s precious history books rifled through and discarded in an unceremonious heap.
Someone had been very thorough.
“Ginny?” He dashed through to the bedroom, hoping beyond hope that he wasn’t about to find her there on the bed, her throat slit.
It was empty. He heaved a sigh of relief. The sheets had been dragged from the mattress and thrown in a heap on the floor, and the wardrobe had been emptied of all her dresses. Her jewelry boxes, too, had been upturned and then discarded in the corner. Rings, brooches and earrings had spilled across the floorboards like marbles, colorful stones and pearls all trodden on in the culprit’s haste. Whatever this was then, the Ghost realized, it wasn’t a robbery.
Even the bathroom had been overturned, the cistern opened, the light fittings unscrewed. The kitchen was the same. The entire place had been gutted.
What secret could Ginny possibly have that was worth all of this? And what did it have to do with her mysterious disappearance? Had the culprit found what they were looking for? It was impossible to tell.
He wondered once again whether he’d really seen her that night, or whether it had been some form of mirage, his mind playing tricks on him. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time, but he still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there’d been something more to it. If she wasn’t really there, someone had wanted him to think that she was.
He felt his hackles rise. Could that mean it was a trap? Was someone trying to lure him out? Perhaps they’d seen the devastation he’d caused on the boat, and were out for revenge. He decided he’d better get out of there, just in case. A small basement apartment was not the sort of place he wanted to find himself cornered in.
One thing was certain, though—whoever was responsible for this mess had let themselves into the apartment with a key. That meant that Ginny was either back in New York, or the key had been taken from her aboard the Centurion. Either way, he didn’t like the inference.
The Ghost pulled a length of twine from inside his coat and secured the broken door. He’d drop an anonymous tip to the police, alerting them to a burglary at this address. They’d probably assume the door had been smashed during the break in. At least that way, Donovan would realize something was up, and his men would properly secure the building.
For now, though, he needed to retreat to his apartment, to mull things over and tend his wounds. Donovan had been right—he did need some rest. He was doubtful he’d get much sleep, but he was no good to anyone—especially Ginny—beat up the way he was.
The next day he would visit Arthur at the museum, see if he couldn’t find out a bit more about Landsworth. If the man knew something about what had happened to Ginny, then Gabriel was damn well going to get to the bottom of it. He’d given Donovan two days to make his move, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help things along a little in the meantime, particularly if he remained in his civilian guise.
As he climbed the steps to street level, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being observed. A quick scan of the street told him it was still deserted, however, and so he fired up his boosters and took off into the night sky, leaving a streaming trail of light behind him.
TWELVE
Donovan watched smoke curl from the smoldering tip of his cigarette, twisting through the air like a twirling ribbon, before slowly dispersing on the breeze from the open window.
“I thought we could take a trip today, Felix.” He felt Flora stir on the bed beside him. She stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the sunlight. “Maybe even take a drive to Brooklyn, or Philly, pick up some of those egg rolls you like.”
“Mmm hmm,” murmured Donovan, rolling the cigarette between his lips.
Flora sighed. “You’re working, aren’t you?”
Donovan plucked the cigarette from his lips, spilling ash across his naked chest. “No. No. I’m here, in bed with you. It’s my day off.”
“I know that look, Felix.”
“What look?”
“That distant expression. You might well be lying there, smoking a cigarette and pretending to listen—”
Donovan held his hand up in self-defense. “Hold on a moment, Flora. I said—”
“No. It’s all right, Felix,” she said, speaking over the top of him until he relented. “I married you. I knew what I was getting into. You’re a million miles away. Your mind is someplace else entirely, and it’s okay. That’s the job. That’s you.”
Donovan eyed her warily, wondering if this was some kind of obscure test. “So you’re not mad? About your trip?”
Flora smiled. “If I were going to leave you for being an absent husband, I’d have done it years ago.” She gave him a playful shove. “Now go on, haul your ass out of bed and go and save the world, or whatever it is you do.”
Donovan laughed. He leaned closer, gathering her up in his arms, bringing her lips closer to his. God, she smelled good. “Saving the world can wait just a little while longer,” he said, running his fingers down the curve of her back.
“Well,” said Flora, laughing, “when you put it like that…”
* * *
Donovan sat for a while in his favorite armchair, sipping at a coffee that had gone cold some time earlier, and chain-smoking cigarettes. He’d been running things over in his mind, trying to find an angle on Landsworth.
He was certain the man was involved somehow, and that the exhibition—or at least the ship that had brought it in—was tied in some way to the two murders. He couldn’t yet figure out what Landsworth had to gain from it all, though. Why would a man who’d spent the last few months in Egypt—an archaeologist, for God’s sake—have any reason to go up against the mob? It made no sense. Coupled with that, he’d got the sense from Landsworth that he was scared of something. Maybe he’d found himself in uncomfortably deep waters, and wasn’t quite sure which way to turn. He certainly wasn’t the ringleader. He lacked the arrogance and the confidence for that.
Donovan decided he’d have another go at him tomorrow, maybe bring him into the station. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d take long to crack under pressure. Probably just holding him in a cell for a couple of hours would be enough to get him talking.
He glanced up at the sound of the holotube trilling on the sideboard, and, with a groan, jumped up from his chair, sighing as the cat immediately hopped up and took his place. He glared at it as he crossed to the sideboard, but its only response was to yawn, and then curl up in a ball.
“Donovan,” he said into the receiver, as he waited for the image to resolve.
“Mullins here, sir.” The image began to form as he spoke, seemingly crystallizing from the hazy blue light. Mullins was leaning right into the terminal, so only his face was visible. The lips were moving, but they weren’t yet in time with the sound. “I’m sorry, sir, I know you’re taking the day off, but you told me to let you know of any developments.”
“It’s all right, Mullins. It’s not like I can think of anything else, not with all of this going on. What’s new?”
“I think I’ve found the connection you’ve been looking for, sir. Between Autumn Allen and the Reaper.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve been going through the boxes of personal effects the boys brought back from her house, and there’s a locket. No one seemed to think much of it, of course, but my sister’s got one just like it. It’s worthless, really, sentimental old junk, but there’s a hidden catch. It opens both ways.” Mullins’s lips had finally caught up with his words.
“And?” prompted Donovan.
“The front compartment contains a picture of her mother. The rear contains a photograph of her with Paul Abbadelli, the Reaper. He has his hand around her waist.”
�
�Got him!” said Donovan. This was the breakthrough they’d been waiting for, something definite to link the woman to the mob. Not just the mob, either, but the Reaper himself. He couldn’t have wished for a better opportunity.
“Well done, Mullins. At the very least, you’ve given us reason to interview him, and a clear connection to the dead woman. Now if we can just find a way to prove the other death was a reprisal killing…” He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the sideboard. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first. Fancy a ride out?”
“Where to?” said Mullins.
“Well, here first, to pick me up. Then I think it’s time we paid Mr. Abbadelli a visit.”
“To his house, sir?”
“No, to his bloody boat in the Pacific Ocean. Yes, to his house. We can’t be scared of these people, Mullins. Otherwise they’ve won.”
“All right. I’ll be over shortly,” said Mullins, and he clicked off the receiver.
Donovan replaced the handset and grinned. That was one part of the puzzle finally falling into place. Now he just needed to get to the bottom of the Egyptian business, and see if he could find out what had happened to Ginny Gray.
* * *
“It feels a bit like walking into the lion’s den, sir,” said Mullins.
“It’s exactly like walking into the lion’s den, Mullins,” said Donovan. He watched as two men approached the car. He could see the bulge of handguns in the line of their suits. They were burly types, too. No doubt handy in a fight. “Try to see that as a good thing.”
“I’m not sure how, exactly.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He reached for the window release, and began to wind it down. “When you do, be sure to let me know.”
